


Those Who Have Loved Us

by WareWolf



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Implied Crowley/Bobby Singer, Season/Series 09 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 17:02:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3617481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WareWolf/pseuds/WareWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley goes back to see Cain, after he and Dean visit for the first time but before Cain gives Dean the Mark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Who Have Loved Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gorlassar](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Gorlassar).



> This story is based on a piece of artwork by Gorlassar, whom I thank for okaying this fic :-)

 

_"If you must know, Hell is currently up for grabs....apparently.  And one of yours decided that I'm an unfit ruler!"_

_"And?  You are unfit.  It should come as no surprise."    Gorlassar_

 

Beneath the critical words, the voice of the Father of Murder was unexpectedly gentle.  Cain stood regarding the miserable visage of the one who had taken over as King of Hell and who now, apparently, had been bloodily deposed in his turn.  Certainly the demon called Crowley was not physically impressive, though Cain silently admitted he did have a certain charm about him.  He wondered why Crowley, who could have a much more commanding presence if he chose, favored this particular short and stocky host but shrugged the matter off.  It had been long and long since he concerned himself with the doings of any in Hell.

It actually looked as though Crowley had been crying.  He looked back at Cain and abruptly sat down on the couch, leaning his bearded face against his hand.  "I like your house,"  he announced.  "It feels comforting.  Safe."

Nonplussed, Cain looked around at his surroundings.  The cottage was comfortable, but utilitarian; built and stocked by him years before.  His possessions were what he had built or traded for by hunting and keeping his bees.  Nobody had ever used those particular words about his home before and the last person he would expect to was this urbane character in his tailored black suit.

"Well,"  he murmured, "let's see, shall we?"  Before Crowley could ask what he meant, Cain's hands were on his face and Crowley's thoughts were slashed bare for the erstwhile Knight to read.  They were nothing he could have expected.  The images flashed quickly through his mind;  first a burly man in a wheelchair, a human, some years older than Crowley's vessel, with a ball cap clamped firmly on his head.   Then Cain saw the man standing, with an unbelieving grin on his face.  There was background of a rather rundown house not unlike the one in which they were.  A bottle of cheap whisky, two glasses, a pile of old books and a rumbling voice keenly discussing something from one of them.  Then images from a later time, images more suited to a demon, of blood and pain and bones burned to ashes.

"See anything you like?"  Crowley snarled, but it seemed half-hearted.  He did not push Cain away, but simply sat hunched over, letting him see what he would.  After a moment he sighed and pulled a red silk handkerchief from his coat pocket, blowing his nose and shoving the crumpled mess back out of sight.  "I don't know why I'm like this.  It's been years.  Abaddon shoves me out and all my loyal demons turn against me and all I can think of ...."

"Is to go to Bobby Singer?"  Cain asked, having pulled the name out of Crowley's memories.  Crowley nodded.  "But he has passed on."

"His house was burned to the ground so there's nowhere I can visit.  The Winchesters - you remember the delightful Dean – they burned his bones as he asked.  There's nothing."

"So you came to me,"  Cain said, not a question.  He sighed.  So long in peace and then all these beings, bringing fire and blood and battle, waking thoughts he had thought asleep forever.  This demon had brought his followers against him;  what was he doing feeling sorry for this flawed King of Hell?

"Why?" asked Crowley, quiet now but still despondent.

"Hm?"  Cain sat next to him on the couch.

"Why do you say I'm unfit?"  He sounded curious rather than angry, which interested Cain.  He didn't imagine people often told Crowley unfavorable facts; not these days.

Cain brushed the back of his hand against Crowley's forehead, as though to remind the King of what he had seen in his mind.  "True demons don't miss people,"  he said.  "They don't love people."

"I didn't know that I did,"  Crowley whispered.  He sat back so that he could meet Cain's eyes.  "It's not supposed to be in us.  Yes, you did, but you're the first.  You're stronger than any of us.  I went from the seventeenth century into Hell and they remade me, so here I am in the  twenty-first;  a soul-dealing demon and the best in the business.  Then Bobby Singer comes along and I make a deal with him, the way I do.  He tricked me, you know, he did me better."  Crowley stopped and pulled the handkerchief out again.  Cain sighed a little, got up and went to his kitchen, fetching two glasses and pouring from a brown glass bottle.  Crowley was composed again by the time Cain returned and took the glass he was handed.

"From my own still,"  Cain told him.  "Be interested to know what you think."

Crowley sipped cautiously and then returned a slight smile.  "Surprisingly mellow."

"Surprisingly!"  Cain smiled at him.

"I'm actually surprised I'm not in pieces,"  Crowley went on, sounding more revived.  "After I brought my demons to your door, not to mention Dean Winchester."

"Troubled man,"  Cain whispered.  "I have a feeling I might see him again."

"I think you might."  Crowley drank again.

"And troubled King,"  Cain added, which was an answer of sorts.  Crowley did not push.  With anyone else, yes, but with the Father of Murder, he knew himself in the presence of all the wisdom his kind possessed, and more strength than any of them.

"I kept going back to see Bobby,"  Crowley mused.  "He would yell at me and tell me off....and  then he would get me a drink and talk to me.  And I changed the deal in his favor;  I wanted him to be able to walk again and I gave him that.  Never got any gratitude, of course, he was a crabby old bastard.  And then he died."  The demon king sounded indignant.  "There's much between the two events, of course, but I don't want to bore you."  The tears began to fall again, unheralded.  "A Leviathan killed him and I wasn't there.  Wasn't of any use to the Winchesters at that moment, of course, so I wasn't there.  And then....then Sam Winchester put me through this procedure called the demon trials, to turn me back to human.  It was supposed to close the gates of Hell.  Quid pro quo.  Would have killed Sam too, so of course Dean interfered and I was left...well, as you now see me.  Weak.  So one of yours did the wolf bitch thing and took over.  Should be proud of her."

Cain listened, watching Crowley with quiet attention.  Crowley supposed he should be a tiny bit worried; barging in on the first of all demons, drunk and ranting, but that would have to wait till he sobered up.  Cain was a striking figure, he thought, tall and powerful, with shaggy hair and mane of bronzed gray and blue eyes that could look right through you.  He looked as he always had, in his original body that never aged, because that was part of the curse.  He had lived everywhere in the world, because he never stopped, only paused for a few years, a few moments in an existence that never ended.  On one of those years-long moments, he had met a woman named Colette and for her sake he had turned from Hell.

Crowley wondered how she, how anyone, could have had the courage to meet Cain's blazing stare and not flee.  He wasn't sure that _he_ even wanted to meet those eyes.  So of course, he had to.

Cain's answering look was quiet.  He sighed, reached an arm around Crowley's shoulders and pulled the King against him, almost into his lap.  "You aren't all gone, you know,"  he said.

"What do you mean?"  Crowley asked drowsily, not resisting.  He dared to lean his head against Cain's chest.

"There's humanity still in you.  You wouldn't cry for Bobby Singer if there wasn't...and you wouldn't have lost the ground you have with your people."

"Not sure that's exactly a compliment."

Cain laughed softly.  Crowley listened to the rumble in his chest, for the moment content.  "I don't bother with complimenting people, King of Hell."  He stroked Crowley's hair.  "I stay away from them so I'm not tempted back to my former path.  I stay away from demons too.  You can still love;  you've kept the best part of humanity in you, which is why you aren't best suited to rule Hell.  There.  That's more advice than I've given in many, many years and you probably won't even remember when you sober up."  Crowley murmured a faint protest, closing his eyes.  "After you leave here, don't come back.  All right?   I want no part of your wars."

His voice was deep, still gentle, but Crowley moved, intending to get to his feet before he translocated out.  It lacked dignity, he thought aggrievedly, to disappear from Cain's lap.  But the Father of Murder kept an arm around him.  "I didn't say you had to leave at once,"  he said.  "For tonight, you stay and we will talk....about those we have loved."  His last words were a murmur for Crowley's ears only, should any being have been within earshot.  "About those who have loved us."

 

*          *          *

 

 

 


End file.
